Have Your Cake

by Elise K. Ackers

  She looked fantastic of course. Like the classiest, most modest of grid girls. Her sin-red blouse perfectly matched the body of the Lamborghini and her black trousers its tyres. Her hair was unstyled but begging for his fingers, like always, and her perfect, unforgettable, heart-stoppable face was turned towards him again, like a dream.

  ‘Abigail,’ he croaked.

  Her eyes darted around the room, taking in her surrounds, before they rested on him and narrowed. ‘You’re not dressed,’ she said, and the accusation was plain. She’d given him directions and he’d not followed them. Not this time. Damned if he hadn’t followed every other one of them, though. But look where that had got him. Dumped.

  ‘I’m trying,’ he said at length.

  ‘Try harder. We don’t have time for this. Have you taken some aspirin?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Be in trousers by the time I come back.’

  Because the demand was almost funny, he managed it. Although his hand was covering his mouth when she reappeared in the doorway. A glass of water and a palmful of pills was thrust into his unwitting hands. He downed them without question, then drowned them.

  Her frown deepened. ‘One of those was for nausea. The others should help with the headache and the dehydration. Drink the rest.’

  He did and she withdrew the glass.

  ‘Pick a shirt,’ she said, then left again.

  He wondered what she made of the place. If it felt as clinical to her as it did to him. If it were possible to fold the distance between their houses out of the way, and step from one house immediately into the other, it would be like exiting a lush, untamed garden, and entering a desert landscape. His was obviously the latter.

  How was it that he’d allowed himself to exist in this void? When had he stopped thinking of this place as home, and just started coming here to sleep between one party and the next? Abigail truly lived in her home, and he missed the feel of the place—the way it was like a brush against her lifeforce. He wished he could be there again.

  ‘Hey.’

  The soft voice made him blink his eyes open. Her face blurred then sharpened, and it was breathtaking in its concern.

  She was right in front of him. Close enough to touch and hold.

  If only.

  ‘Dillon,’ she said, ‘I need you to pull yourself together. For just a little while. Until this is over.’

  ‘I’ve been …’ Sad. Desolate. Flung back into the nothingness that is my shallow, vapid existence, and I’m choking on my own misery. ‘Drinking.’

  Her lips inched down in the corners. ‘I know. It’s okay, I’ll help you get through this. Come into the bathroom.’ Her soft, long fingers curled around his hand and he allowed himself to be led. At the vast, granite basin, she let go of him to turn on the tap and lift his toothbrush from its marble holder. She glanced at it and shook her head a fraction, and in that infinitesimal reaction to his excess—because it was a bloody expensive toothbrush—he felt apart from her all over again. He took it wordlessly and fell into the motions.

  She styled his hair as he brushed his teeth. Moved her wet fingers along his scalp, then from root to tip, and the pain in his body made room for a jolt of pleasure. His eyes fluttered closed.

  ‘Hey,’ she murmured. ‘We’re against the clock here. Push through this.’

  He didn’t bother explaining that he was feeling better already, he just did as she asked.

  When he was done, she turned him to face her and regarded him closely. ‘Do you have shades?’ He nodded, which appeared to satisfy her.

  A shimmer of surprise moved through his body when he recognised his own hand against her cheek. He didn’t remember putting it there, even though his body had been singing with need for her. But now it was there, and she wasn’t pushing it away. His battered heart lifted when she closed her eyes and leaned into his touch.

  His lungs stilled. One missed breath. Two. She opened her eyes and eased away, but not before he glimpsed a depth of sadness in her expression.

  Neither spoke.

  They were out the door and in the van—which was curiously adorned with the logos he’d designed for her—within ten minutes. That’s when the clock started to play up. It gained momentum, like a child on a swing, and suddenly everything was barrelling towards him, urgent and immediate.

  The silence broke.

  ‘The media’s all there,’ Abigail said, flicking on the indicator then pulling onto the street. ‘Steve’s got the driver in the building. My stuff’s ready to go, it just needs to be unwrapped. Your team’s been helpful, but they’re nervous. And you’re going to be great. This is all going to be great.’

  There were small traffic cones by the side entrance of the building. Someone had been thoughtful enough to save a space for the boss’s transport. Abigail inched into position then pulled the handbrake with gusto.

  ‘Break a leg,’ she said, turning in her seat to smile at him. It wasn’t a nose-crinkle smile, but he was happy to accept it all the same.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ he asked. He’d paid her invoice, product unseen. She’d got her stuff here, presumably well ahead of deadline if history told him anything. But she’d gone above and beyond. For him.

  Her expression softened. ‘Because you’ve done so much for me. C’mon, go. Before Steve gets wheeled out on a stretcher.’

  ‘Wheeled,’ he said weakly. ‘Ha.’ Dillon slid from the passenger seat and glanced at her one more time before he closed the door.

  He hesitated, then thought of Steve. Bolstered, Dillon lifted his chin and strode into Wheels. The people were here for a show, and he was going to deliver. For her. For Steve. For all the people who were counting on him. And hell, for himself.

  Because if he screwed this up, there would be nowhere and no-one in the world that would want Dillon for anything more than the money in his pocket.

  Chapter 21

  The Veneno Roadster

  Lindsay Wells was Britain’s most celebrated racing driver. His high-speed career spanned two decades. He was the only sportscar racer to win four consecutive British GT Championships, he’d won or placed in seventeen national championships and five international series—more often than not in his preferred Lamborghini Diablo GTR—and he’d used sponsorship money to open a performance driving school in outer-west London. He was also shy.

  Which was fine, because at his side, Dillon Wheeler was a fake.

  Arms over his body, shoulders lifted and cap pulled low over his eyes, Wells was ill-at-ease with the growing crowd. But Dillon couldn’t open his arms any wider. News vans were blocking the footpath. Media teams were mingling amongst cars whose polish rivalled the shine of gemstones. Passing pedestrians had wandered in, intrigued by the buzz. Cameras were in position.

  Dillon bumped the bill of Wells’s cap up. ‘I’m paying for your face. Let them see it.’

  ‘Right.’

  Dillon glanced at him appraisingly. The stage-fright was a surprise, but Dillon had to trust that the man’s professionalism would surpass it. They’d agreed on a script over a couple of beers, talked cars of course, and generally bonded last week—but this had not come up as a possible issue.

  Dillon realised now that his time might have been better spent running Wells through a trial. A practice lap, as it were.

  Another thing to add to his trash fire of regrets.

  Standing in the crowd, pressing elbows and applying compliments, Steve paused his networking to check his watch. He nodded at Wells, then continued handing out his media releases.

  Wells took his cue and stepped wordlessly from Dillon’s side.

  Dillon counted to sixty, giving the driver a full minute to settle himself behind the wheel of the reason they were all here, then he turned on the microphone and tapped it for attention. Conversations trailed off. Steve extracted himself from their guests and took his place at Dillon’s side. The Wheels sales team and mechanics stepped away from their workstations to watch. And Abigail, all the way
at the back with her hands folded and her expression closed, lifted her chin. Everyone else looked up at Dillon with interest.

  They should all be thanking her, he thought. For getting him here in the first instance, but also for the cocktail of tablets that she’d got into his gut. He wasn’t feeling amazing, but at least he was vertical. And the sun was out, so he was able to hide his bloodshot eyes behind his sunglasses without arousing suspicion.

  He was rallying. Faking it. Throwing out the charm and smiling with ease.

  He would fall in a heap later.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ he said, his voice magnified. ‘Thank you all for coming. This is a really exciting moment for those of us at Wheels. Today we get to introduce you to a very special lady. A new member of the family, as it were.

  ‘Here at Wheels we strive to give our customers a unique, and dare I say it, ultimate automotive experience. The Veneno Roadster is going to make dreams come true. For the purists, this is one of the world’s most exclusive automobiles: made in 2014, there are only nine of her in the world. For the enthusiasts, she accelerates from zero to one hundred in 2.9 seconds. I can talk about her features all day—’

  ‘He can,’ Steve interrupted dryly, and people laughed.

  Dillon grinned. He was hitting his stride, he could feel it. ‘I really, really can. But I won’t. Instead I’ll just say this. If you’re curious, if you’re passionate, if you’re sitting at the traffic lights one day and you look over and see this most beautiful of cars and you think, “I wish”—come in. Come in here, and get out there.’ He pointed over their heads. ‘For a day, for a week. Maybe for just a single date.’

  More smiles. Dillon sought Abigail’s eyes in the crowd and saw her mouth turn ever so slightly up in the corner.

  Lord, to have that woman in this car …

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I give you our latest pride and joy. Our jewel. The Veneno Roadster Lamborghini.’

  The growl of the idling motor was almost sexual. It rumbled, as if stuck in a woman’s throat, then tore free—a scream of frustration and promise. Of danger and seduction and power. The curtains were drawn back. Wells disengaged the handbrake, then it was suddenly there, seamlessly galloping towards them, bringing to mind the bull mascot crowning its hood. Its body as red as a bullfighting flag.

  The crowd began to murmur. It was barrelling straight at them, gaining speed. People began to move. Then there was a scream—a wail of brakes and dragging rubber. The car turned. Spun. Almost pivoted on the spot, before it lurched to a heart-stopping stop inches from Dillon’s right knee, and perfectly positioned between the checked bouquet stands.

  Dillon was the first to clap.

  When their hearts climbed down from their throats, the crowd began to applaud.

  The heavily-tinted driver’s window rolled down to reveal Wells’s famous face. He touched two fingers to his temple in a salute, and grinned so boyishly that people laughed.

  Dillon crossed to him, eased his hip against the flank of the car, and posed for pictures. Dozens of them. He appeased requests to shake Wells’s hand, to cross his arms, to get behind the wheel himself, and nodded his thanks when Steve took a few amateur shots for their own collection.

  Then people closed in. Looked inside, ran their fingers along the gorgeous lines of her, and made all the right noises.

  It was a delight to pull one of the bottom-most cupcakes free from the nearest bouquet and offer it to the journalist asking him questions. She took it, stared at it. Stared at the bouquets then waved her photographer over.

  People made all the right noises over Abigail’s creations too.

  He looked for her, but she was gone. Perhaps rightly guessing that he’d pull her in front of the cameras when the focus shifted to the event catering. She wanted privacy and personal obscurity, but he might not have been able to help himself. Despite everything, even though it was over … he was absurdly proud of her.

  Wells climbed out of the car and spoke to the journalists clamouring for his statement. He praised the car’s beauty and power, commended the designers, and gave Wheels his emphatic endorsement. He signed autographs, good naturedly signed a Lamborghini shirt Steve had ordered in specially, then everything became a lot less formal.

  The lot cleared within an hour. People went back to their lives and back to their desks to relive the moment and publish their opinion pieces. Wheels was left with a mountain of cupcake crumbs, eight weekend bookings, and staff who could not stop grinning.

  Dillon’s smile, however, had lost a few degrees.

  It had by all accounts been a wild success. But the person he’d most wanted to share his success with had left.

  Something scratched at the inside of his skull. A building headache. An unpleasant thought.

  If he didn’t act now, he’d have no-one to celebrate this moment with. There would only be one turned back after another, until he was alone, standing in that cold, impersonal living room.

  ‘To the Leyton Star!’ Dillon called out, pumping his hands over his head to get his staff’s attention. ‘The first two rounds are on me. Champagne then your choice of poison.’

  His team cheered. They slapped him on the back, thanked him as they passed, then it was just Dillon and Steve, standing before a suddenly redundant stage, their hands in their pockets. The T-shirt Wells had signed was draped over Steve’s forearm.

  ‘Thought I’d mount it,’ Steve said, noticing Dillon’s interest in it. ‘Get that picture of you and Wells printed, put it all together in a shadow box. Hang it in reception.’

  ‘With a little plaque?’

  ‘With a little plaque.’

  ‘Nice.’

  Steve nodded. He glanced at Dillon’s sunglasses, which Dillon had yet to take off, then towards the floor vases and the near-naked foam balls that had once bloomed with roses. He sucked on his top lip. ‘You’ve got yourself quite a lady in that one.’

  Dillon said nothing.

  Chapter 22

  Overnight bag

  After close of business, Brittany helped Abigail set up a tripod and camera, and they tested the angles. They’d agreed on a wide-shot time-lapse; all eleven centrepieces within the frame and a production line of tasks. The workbench looked like the best kind of busy, and it was faultlessly organised. Brittany had assembled the transport boxes throughout the day and positioned them behind the centrepiece vases. When they began their work in the morning, Abigail and Brittany would work from left to right. Abigail would sit with her back to the camera, her face turned from the lens, and Brittany would once again be the face of the company.

  As soon as the camera was in place, Abigail walked Brittany to the front door.

  ‘I’ll be right behind you,’ she said when the young woman cast a suspicious look back at the lit kitchen.

  ‘Minutes? Because I can wait.’

  Abigail smiled. ‘A few too many minutes for you to wait. C’mon, you started early, you kept the place running—go home and put your feet up.’

  ‘We need to talk about how much you work.’

  ‘Let’s talk about it tomorrow.’

  Brittany stepped through the door, down onto the brick paved yard, and turned back. ‘Those podium flowers were a hit.’

  Still smiling, Abigail reached pointedly for the doorhandle.

  A hit was an understatement. The media flurry surrounding the Lamborghini launch had been sweetened by many mentions of her store. One reporter had even gone a little off track and focused on the sugar flowers for two paragraphs before returning to the subject of the performance vehicle for hire. Boucake’s first foray into the corporate world had been a raging success, and her inbox was receiving one pitch request after the next.

  ‘Things are going to get crazier,’ Brittany said. Her hand flew up to stop the door closing. ‘You’re going to need me out the back more.’

  ‘I’ll have fresh pastries for us in the morning,’ Abigail said, ‘and strong coffee. We can talk about business growth over breakfas
t.’

  Brittany hesitated. She glanced into the shop then back at her boss. ‘Please go home soon.’

  Instead of lying to the girl, Abigail stepped down and wrapped her in a hug. Brittany’s arms hooked around her back and tightened.

  Both were smiling when they broke apart.

  ‘Please go to the fruit market before you come here tomorrow,’ Abigail reminded her softly. ‘You’ve got the list?’

  Brittany patted her handbag. ‘Yep.’ A moment later, she’d stepped around the corner, leaving Abigail alone in the Yard. All the other businesses had closed on time. She glanced around, feeling both connected and apart from this small world that had ignited her imagination, then took her adrenaline and fatigue inside to dance.

  When the door was locked, the blind was drawn and the lights were out, she felt the first pinch of doubt since she’d decided to bring an overnight kit into work this morning. Although she was here more than she was at home, there was nothing comfortable or homey about the place. It was all hard lines and clean surfaces, free of the clutter that comforted her in Kentish Town. She’d rarely stayed past ten o’clock before tonight, but these were desperate times. Things were barely manageable, and as Brittany had said, about to get crazier. The nature of a growing business.

  Abigail had planned for success. She’d planned for failure too. She’d turned up at that orange door with a lease in her hand and a head full of dreams, with one overnight bag and a dozen things nipping at her heels, and she’d made this new life work for her. Thrive, even. She’d known it could crumble like dry cake, but Abigail bloomed under pressure. She’d started modestly, with a basic logo and a single display case of cupcakes. But word had spread fast, courtesy of the free samples she’d handed out to her new neighbours. It had been lucky in a sense, that she’d had no-one to go home to and nowhere else to be. Her isolation had meant output. Cake after cake after cake, and logo designs until the thin hours of the morning.

  She’d hired Brittany at the tipping point of her sanity, when she’d not been able to get through decorating a new batch without half a dozen customer interruptions. Curiously, Tolkien had turned up at her flat that same week. With the time the vivacious woman had suddenly afforded her, Abigail had decorated the white space. Swapped out white shelves for glass ones. Bought a van and begun to offer deliveries. And had someone to talk to.